


Consummation.

by Tammany



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: First Time, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 00:00:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19734295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: Accepting that angels and demons are not corporeal beings, but spiritual beings wearing State-issued mortal bodies.Accepting that love between pure spirits is not necessarily sex.Accepting that, in spite of this, these two old Earth hands have gone just a bit native, and know better than the average spirit what those bodies are for...It seems to me reasonable to think that the two might choose to explore the physical sex option.So--what will no doubt be the first of many attempts to try to work out what the blend of angel, demon, mortal sex, and immortal adoration might play out like. Hope you like it.





	Consummation.

They stand together in the dappled darkness of Aziraphale’s rooms over the bookshop. They are splashed and striped with light and dark—the glow of London, the shadow of blinds and slowly turning mobiles, of plant leaves and bookshelves.

They are both terrified. They are both mere seconds from breaking, shying away, blathering and yammering and making idiotic comments just to camouflage the fact that they have reached the precipice. They are too close to complete intimacy, and too alien to human, earthly intimacy to be sure what they’re doing.

If you’re human you may be ignorant, but you’re not expected to improvise on quite the same level facing Aziraphale and Crowley.

It has been six thousand-plus years, and it’s not like they haven’t both seen all there is to see of human sex from the Garden on. Indeed, they’ve gotten an immortal eyeful. But humans are not angel stock. There are complications—and wings are the least of it.

Gender doesn’t matter to them; they are spirits. Their bodies are assigned equipment, and modifiable equipment at that. But Aziraphale feels obliged to say, softly, “If you’d rather I were in a female body…” He shrugs and his attempt at a smile is pitiful—big eyed, vulnerable, obviously not as casual as he is trying for. “I could...slip into something more comfortable.”

Crowley growling “Shattup” is as heartbreakingly fragile. “Why would I care? It’s all sin, right? Either way?” He’s sardonic. Damnation takes the fun out of a lot of things. He’s terrified it will take the fun out of this—not just for himself, but, worse, for his angelic partner. He wants to please…and he’s too damned Crowley to feel safe admitting it. And he hates the terror in Aziraphale’s face. His angel fears too much—probably starting with the fear of God, he thinks, angrily.

It’s not easy growing up in a family where perfection is the very least they expect of you, and anything else is a failure. Crowley knows all about that, but he’s long since left that particular family. His own is dysfunctional in entirely different ways. Ways that leave him particularly susceptible to wide-eyed innocents who are kind.

It’s the kindness that gets him. Like offering to switch genders if Crowley cares about it. Always that little extra thought. Always the desire to please.

He knows he’s the cocky one—in more ways than one. He’s the one with the pride, and the swagger, and if the truth is he often starts to lead only to let Aziraphale actually flesh out the plans and make the rational suggestions, he also is the one who sweeps the angel along, and who moves him.

Knowing that, he knows it’s got to be his role to initiate. Aziraphale will worry it to death.

He straightens, and seeks the role. The Crowley thing he’s been pushing out there since at least the switch over from BC to AD, when he decided “Crawly” was not working for him. Since then it’s been swagger and strut and hip-shot confidence all the way. He leans back, lets one hip cock. Crosses his arms, and proceeds to stalk around Aziraphale. Studies him. Makes him blush with a gaze so intense it gives the impression of seeing the angel bare before him.

Not that it works that way. Oddly, he can see the angel’s wings perfectly well in this mode—and can’t see a thing past his jacket and waistcoat.

Aziraphale is flustered and pink, trying to turn with Crowley’s orbit and stand still at the same time—succeeding at neither. Crowley is just congratulating himself on his feigned machismo when the shorter angel, sweet and mild, grabs him by the tank-top, holds him in place, and pulls him in. His blue eyes have gone all laughing and fierce. His free hand slithers up Crowley’s arm, along his shoulder, behind his neck, and pulls the demon’s head down, offering pretty, warm lips. Too pretty. Too pink. Too tempting.

The shock alone is enough to drop Crowley’s jaw, and his mortal heart nearly stops when his angel shows he knows what to do, given an opening like that. Next thing the demon knows he’s clinging to Aziraphale’s trim, square shoulders for dear life, and completely failing to muffle a fluid series of whines and moans. His body has sprung awake. All the bits and pieces that he seldom notices force themselves upon his awareness, body overwhelming spirit, shouting physical need.

He has a cock, and testicles. He suddenly thinks he may be all cock and testicle. His cock, slim and long, is straight as a flag pole and aimed at Heaven. His balls, conversely, are fat and full and tucked up tight against his perineum. His mouth is swollen and his lips full and so very sensitive. And his fingers—the tips demand his attention, too, as they first grab Aziraphale’s jacket—then explore, reach, caress, stroke, navigating a winding path over the angel’s own assigned corpus, until his arms encircle the other, and pull him close, hands spread out like spider legs to hold tight. In that exact second he takes charge of their kiss, nipping mischievously at Aziraphale’s full, pouting lower lip.

The angel’s mouth is full and plump with kissing and desire, swollen firm—as is his own cock. Crowley risks all to cup a palm over the rise in Aziraphale’s trousers, finding more mass, if somewhat less length. The angel lows, anguished and longing, like a bull catching scent of a cow in heat.

God. The sound is obscene…and Crowley loves it.

“Naked,” he says, the shiver of his body translating into a near stutter as he speaks. “I think that comes next. Naked.” His accent, so deeply Scottish, thickens as much as his cock. His blood seems thick, too, pounding through the flimsy physical body. The feeling is so extreme, so out of control that Crowley takes a moment to pass a quick preventive miracle—may he not have a stroke, or a heart attack, or burst an aneurism in that fragile body in mid-fuck, please! He doubts either Heaven or Hell would grant him another body, and he’s not sure he can appeal to Adam to give him a new one. He’s not sure Adam even can, anymore.

He’s not sure Adam can’t, either, but that’s a million miles away from his awareness right now. Right now he’s passed a miracle so that he won’t easily drop dead in his…

His brain stops, frozen. His body stops. The kissing stops. The caresses stop. The embrace remains as Crowley struggles with a single word.

He won’t easily drop dead in his _lover’s_ arms.

Lover.

Aziraphale is about to become his lover.

Crowley, a demon, assigned to make trouble on Earth these six millennia and more, has had sex before, by command of His Satanic Majesty. It is quite different fulfilling a Satanic command than it is entering voluntarily into…his brain pants in panic as all the new vocabulary comes into play.

It is different entering voluntarily into a romantic relationship with a willing and informed peer, and making love.

Making love.

Having foreplay.

Sharing.

He is savaged by the words, in terror, failing, when he feels Aziraphale’s soft, soft hands soothe his brow, brush the fringe back from his hair line, and that full rosebud mouth kiss his face, and kiss again, and again, trailing soft touches along his cheekbones and over his weeping eyes.

“Shhhh,” Aziraphale murmurs. He is tender, strong, stable. He rocks the demon softly, and laps his tears away with a tender tongue until at last the demon smiles, then laughs, and hugs him tight.

“Damn you, Angel…” The voice, though, says the exact opposite of damnation. It is fond, and sweet, and grateful. “I’m better now. Just got a bit ahead of myself. Implications kind of ambushed me.”

“We don’t have to do this,” Aziraphale says, but Crowley can hear the fear and hope battling in his voice. Fear that Crowley will decide to pass. Hope he won’t.

“Bugger that for a lark,” Crowley growls, smiling, and proceeds to demolish the prim bow tie at Aziraphale’s throat, free all the buttons from jacket, waistcoat and shirt, unfasten the t-bar of the watch chain and secure watch, chain, and fob safely, to be put on a nearby shelf. He’s chuckling, salting kisses over Aziraphale’s face, now, as Aziraphale returns the valet-services, shucking Crowley out of jacket, waist coat, tank-T, and the knotted cord he wears that passes as a tie.

Half-naked, they pause.

“You are beautiful, Angel,” Crowley says, looking at the marble pale gleam in the dim lights of the room.

“Soft,” Aziraphale mutters, but fails to look sufficiently overwrought at the notion. Instead he meditatively runs a hand over his own slightly bowed belly, up again, following a treasure trail of fine white hair that almost glitters when it catches any light stronger than palest dusk. He reaches out with his free hand, slides around to grip the small of Crowley’s slim back, just over the tiny, tight bum, and pulls him close.

Cock to belly, cock to balls, peckers united. Which makes Crowley snerk, as it sounds like a chant for a football team. The Mighty Peckers United!

He shares the thought, not even aware he’s switched from speech of mortals to silent, telepathic speech of angels…a speech no longer shared devil to devil. He realizes with shock he still remembers how to do it—with Aziraphale. And that Aziraphale hears him, chuckling softly at the idea, and sending back a humorous little visual comment illustrating the ill-matched MPU team, in baggy athletic gear from Victoria’s era. And then they are both swept away on the emotional realization that the most intimate of speech is there for them.

They can make love like true angels, even as they share these bodies like true humans.

“Naked,” Crowley says for the second time that night, desperate, as his own fingers battle his belt buckle open, and shove down his jeans, and his feet kick off boots and toe off socks. He is naked just in time to tie with Aziraphale.

Two pairs of wings snap into existence in the mortal plane, crow black and surf white. They arch around the two men, they quiver with desire, they fill the room with the shattering rattle of the rachises of their primary feathers.

With wings, beds and couches become problematic landing places for two desperate lovers. They struggle together. Crowley is too tall to let Aziraphale hoist him up—he over balances them. They switch, Aziraphale bouncing on his toes and springing up, thighs rising to grip tight around Crowley’s waist, ankles locking behind Crowley’s back.

An ill-measured nip at Crowley’s throat brings an unexpectedly hot moan to the demon’s throat. Aziraphale may not be the sharpest needle in the sewing basket, but he’s not so dull he can’t take a hint. Sharp white teeth nip, and nip, leaving a trail of tiny pink welts and a ribbon of desirous pain. Meanwhile the demon’s clever hands brace Aziraphale’s back and stroke his flanks.

When, drunk on the crazy human chemistry, the angel tips his face back, hungering for a fast breath and for cool air, the demon grows still. His eyes no longer trickle tears, but the jarring serpent eyes, gold with slit pupils, seem to glow, uncanny, not really right in a situation already too peculiar: mortal body and angel body blended, angel spirit out of control on the odd, human version of divine love.

The two study each other. Aziraphale drops from his perch on Crowley’s hips. But he is not done. Not retreating. He shifts, subtly, as does Crowley, and they begin a slower, gentler, but even more passionate exploration.

“I think no wings, this time. Too much to manage.”

Aziraphale grunts softly, but his wings fade back into the Empyrian plane. When Crowley, too, has sent his wings away, the angel takes his lover by the hand and leads him to the modest double bed in the one-bedroom flat.

“Come here, you wily old serpent.”He guides Crowley between the sheets, eyes fond, mouth smiling.

Crowley is almost undone, with never an orgasm even attempted. He’s suffering the little death over affection alone. Over love. Over the glowing, tender eyes of his beloved.

Damnation is lonely. Hell, lonelier. To be surrounded by people you despise, who despise you in return—and convince you that the loathing is deserved? If Heaven is supposed to be eternity in God’s loving presence, Hell is an eternity of no love—and the conviction you deserve the punishment.

It is no wonder the seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, years, decades, centuries, millennia have piled up, overwhelmed him, flooded him with his Angel’s fond love.

“C’mere, you,” he growls, trying to cover his longing and gratitude.

Aziraphale tumbles down beside him, and allows himself to be tipped, pressed into the mattress, kissed and worshipped.

Shy, unsure, neither willing to ruin what they have searching for some strange ideal, they rock together, straddling each other’s thighs, caressing each other’s flanks, and kissing.

Kisses on kisses. The dark room has begun to grow light with the first signs of false sunrise, when at last Crowley tips frantically into climax, triggering Aziraphale mere moments after as the angel watches his lover rise up over him, arch backward, his throat and Adam’s apple a modern sculpture—a treasure of great worth. As Crowley completes his pleasure, and leans back down, Azirapale crests, moaning, hips juddering up, as his cock seeks Crowley’s thigh.

And then they are done…or not. Humans often think that is the end of the act, but demon and angel murmur to each other, rub faces, kiss lightly, praise each other…

“Do this again sometime?” Crowley risks asking, afraid not to ask lest he wait through eternity for a rematch that will never happen.

“Oh, I do hope so, my dear,” Aziraphale says, eyes sparkling and grin contagious. And then, because he is an angel, not a demon, he says, simply, “I love you, dear. Now—what about a shower and a nap?”

And Crowley, who’s socially more adept than Aziraphale because temptation demands finesse, agrees contentedly. The shower is hot. They share a single towel to dry on. Then they lie together arms twined, as the sun rises.

“I love you, too,” Crowley said, heart racing at the risk.

“My dear,” Aziraphale murmurs, fond and protective. His arms wrap his lover close, and Crowley is pillowed on his chest. “My very dearest dear…”

Then both blue and gold eyes flicker, and close, and their mortal bodies sleep, and their immortal spirits sing wordless harmonies that remind God a bit of ragtime, and make her smile.


End file.
